Thranduil's Longest Day
by SkyFire2
Summary: Like the title says: Thranduil's Longest Day. He really should have stayed in bed. FINISHED!
1. Awakening

Thranduil's Longest Day  
by SkyFire  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Ai! Brief nudity, future hardships!)  
Summary: Like the title says: Thranduil's Longest Day. He really should have stayed in bed. *grin*  
  
A/N: Thoughts are in // //.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never were. *sigh*  
  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
by SkyFire  
  
He awoke slowly, languidly. He stretched in the large bed, bare skin sliding easily over the   
slick silken sheets even as he blinked sleepily up at the canopy above, a canopy made of layered   
sheer green silk cut to mimic leaves and ferns, the posts elaborately carved with the flowing   
vines and curves of which the Elves were so fond.  
  
For a long moment he lay there, drowsing in the warmth and softness, not yet willing to admit   
that he was awake, that the day had begun.  
  
At last, though, it was time to rise.  
  
With a soft sigh of regret, he pushed aside the thick, down-filled covers, sat up in bed.   
Another wide stretch, then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, brushing aside   
the soft bedcurtains as he did. Automatically, he reached for a nearby robe and wrapped himself   
in it before making his way to the sunny balcony, the stone floor cool against his bare feet, the   
few rugs scattered here and there only slightly sheltering his feet from the chill.  
  
Bright sunlight poured down on the balcony, soaking into the dark stone, which in turn radiated   
it, filling the space with warmth from both above and below.  
  
Stepping out into the sunshine, Thranduil rested his hands on the sun-warmed stone railing, his   
eyes closed and head thrown back in enjoyment of the warmth and fresh air.  
  
But even through the veils of warmth and contentment, he sensed that something was wrong.   
Something was out of place. Something....  
  
His eyes snapped open, narrowing in thought.  
  
//What is not right?// he wondered. //All sounds as it should. The Sun is shining--// He   
blinked, considered the angle of the Sun's rays through the trees as something about that last   
thought made warning-bells go off in his mind.  
  
The Sun.  
  
Far higher than it should have been.  
  
He had overslept.  
  
A muffled curse escaped him even as he turned and dashed back into his bedchamber, throwing his   
robe carelessly aside as he did, barely noticing that it missed the chair he had been halfway   
aiming for and fell to the floor to lie in a crumpled heap.  
  
The full bath, sitting in its usual spot in front of the fireplace, caught his eye and he made   
his way toward it, pulling his nightshirt smoothly over his head as he went.  
  
Or at least, that was his intention.  
  
In actuality, the nightshirt got caught halfway on its way over his jaw.  
  
Thranduil let out a small sound of disbelief, a sound easily swallowed by the enveloping fabric.   
//This can't be happening,// he thought to himself, stumbling a little as he tugged at his   
nightshirt, only managing to trap his arms in the fabric over his head. //I haven't gotten   
caught in my own clothing since I was an Elfling!//  
  
Anyone coming into the room would have been both shocked and amused at the sight that greeted   
them; Thranduil, dignified King of the Mirkwood Elves, stumbling blindly around the room, arms   
trapped over his head, naked save for the nightshirt caught around his head and arms.  
  
For a few long moments, he stumbled around, caught. Then with a small growl, he tightened his   
grip of the fabric and yanked, ignoring the harsh burning and tugging at his jaw. Protesting,   
the nightshirt reluctantly released its hold on his head and arms, doing so with a suddenness   
that left him stumbling back in shock at the sudden release and brightness....  
  
...And onto the rug that lay in wait for him.  
  
Not expecting it, still mostly off balance and blinking with the abruptness of his release, he   
didn't see the rug until it was too late.  
  
Thranduil cursed aloud as his heel caught the edge of the rug, tripping him and sending small   
spikes of pain shooting up his leg. He staggered a few graceless steps backward toward the bath,   
arms flailing wildly, nightshirt flying from his grasp. He tried to turn away from the bath, but   
momentum worked against him and he felt the cool metal come abruptly up against the back of his   
knees, causing his legs to fold involuntarily beneath him.  
  
There was a loud splash as he fell backwards into the full tub, his legs below the knee the only   
parts of him not to fall in. Water splashed up into the air, sloshing over the sides of the tub   
at his abrupt entry, splashing onto the floor around the burnished copper tub.  
  
Then two strong, slender hands burst out of the water, grabbed hold of the sides of the tub and   
pulled him to the surface. His face broke the surface and he gasped for breath, eyes wide at the   
shock of his unexpected dunking, water streaming down his face, his hair hanging in a soaked   
curtain of gold about his head, neck, and shoulders.  
  
He had standing orders with the palace servants that they were to bring a tub of hot water to his   
bedchambers every morning at the dawn hour. Always, as was his custom, he would linger in the hot   
water, enjoying the warm, sensuous feel of it on his skin, the steam in the air, going over the   
day's schedule as he soaked. The woodsy scent of the bath oils would rise into the air about him,   
soaking into his skin at the same time.  
  
He would not be lingering that day.  
  
Apparently he had overslept so long that the usually-steaming hot water had cooled enough to not   
only have stopped steaming, but to actually raise gooseflesh all over his body even while it   
caused certain important bits of him to draw closer to his body in shock and fear at their   
immersion into the frigid liquid.  
  
Shivering in the cold, Thranduil pulled his legs into the tub, went to stand... only to sink back   
in with an unhappy sound, the vague memory of an appointment running through his cold-shocked   
mind. Unhappily, he reached for soap and washcloth.  
  
//The sacrifices I make for Mirkwood,// he thought as he washed, shivering convulsively all the   
while.  
  
TBC...  
  
--  
*grin* What can I say, besides "poor Thranduil?" ;oP  
  
Click the button down there and leave the plotbunnies and I some reviews! Any ideas you might   
have for what *else* could go wrong for Thranduil are appreciated; I know vaguely where I want to   
end up with this fic, but not so much the specifics of how I'm supposed to get there. Feedback   
helps! Even if I don't use the ideas suggested, they usually get the 'bunnies chewing on   
*something*! *grin* 


	2. After the bath

Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Corienha: Well, your guess falls *somewhat* along the plotbunnies' plans. Somewhat, as there will   
be falling, and a horse, and Thranduil's derriere, but not *quite* in the combination you   
mentioned. *grin*  
--  
Drea, Shadowfocs: Well, I had no intention of sticking Elrond in there, but you never know what   
the Muses will come up with... ;oP  
--  
Dragon-of-the-north: Well, the servants *are* somewhat more involved in this chapter, in a manner   
of speaking... *grin*  
--  
Bonnie: "Thoroughly enjoyed this. Poor Thranduil...why do I think he's day isn't going to get   
any better." Run with that. ;oP  
--  
*Star Girl*: Parody? This isn't parody. That's when you're making fun of something specific. This   
story is just me making Thranduil's day miserable and embarrassing the heck out of him at the   
same time. My warped sense of humor at work... ;oD  
--  
Saber: Those plotbunnies can be vicious at times, can't they? *grin* My ThranduilMuse definitely   
agrees with that! And my GlorfindelMuse... and my ElrondMuse... and... LOL!  
  
*  
A/N:   
1)This was a fun chapter to write, though I'm next thing to certain that my ThranduilMuse   
vehemently protests the fact. *grin*  
  
2) For anyone who might have been hoping for some of those snippets from my "Saruman's Revenge"   
AU, I posted one. It's called "Sleepy Sketches."  
  
3) For anyone who likes my young-Twins fic, there is a new one up called "The Invasion of   
Rivendell."  
  
4) As always, thoughts are in // //.  
  
Hope you like this chapter! It starts off right at the end of the previous one.  
  
.  
For disclaimer, see part 1.  
  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 2  
  
With atypical swiftness, he finished bathing and climbed from the tub, shivering convulsively   
with cold, but clean. He looked around for a towel to dry himself with.  
  
It was then that he discovered that at least *something* was going well that morning - the large,   
fluffy towel hung in its accustomed place on the warming rack beside the fireplace and should be   
nice and toasty-warm despite the delay.  
  
He walked to the rack, careful to mind his step, guarding himself from any untoward incidents   
involving slightly raised floor tiles or any more evil rugs. On that day, he wouldn't put it past   
them to stub his toes or trip him again.  
  
He arrived beside the fireplace without incident, pulled the thick towel from the rack and   
wrapped it about himself, reveling in the warmth.   
  
Then his nose caught a whiff of something foul.  
  
//What is that?// he wondered, looking around. //Burning... something. But what?//  
  
It was only then that he noticed that his luck had not changed for the better after all. The   
part of the towel that had been closest to the fireplace was singed and smoking.  
  
With an irritated sigh, he dried himself off as quickly as he could so that the smell of the   
smoldering towel wouldn't cling to his skin, forcing him to take another frigid bath. That done,   
he walked over to his wardrobe to get some clothing.  
  
Distracted by his irritation, he stood just a *little* too close to the wardrobe, and one of the   
doors smacked him a glancing blow to the face as he opened it.  
  
Eyes closed, teeth clenched, hands fisted at his sides, Thranduil breathed deeply and forced his   
irritation down inside him. Muttering nearly his entire curse vocabulary under his breath, he   
looked inside the wardrobe to pick out a nice robe to wear to the vaguely-remembered meeting.  
  
At last, something was going right! Hanging there was a new robe, finished only the day before.   
Made of soft silken velvet in shades of green and brown - Mirkwood's colors - the robe was cut   
and patterned to flatter both his figure and his coloring.  
  
Carefully, nearly paranoid now, he reached in and pulled out the new robe. Gently, he shook it   
out, then looked it over. The edges were all finished. No rogue pins were waiting to prick him.   
All seemed to be as it should.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Robe chosen, he turned around, found his nightrobe from where he had flung it, wrapped the   
wrinkled garment around himself and sat down at his dressing table to fix his hair.  
  
Looking at his refelction in the mirror even as his hand reached out for his favorite solid   
silver hairbrush - a long-ago gift from his mother - he was glad to see that there was no bruise   
forming at the place the wardrobe door had hit his face. All else that had happened so far was   
easily hidden from the public. A bruise on his face would be otherwise.  
  
As he had every day for as far back as he could remember, he took up his brush and brushed out   
his golden hair with long, smooth strokes, again and again, until the golden strands shone in the   
light. Another stroke and another, the strokes falling with an almost meditative regularity that   
let him--  
  
*SNAP*  
  
Thranduil blinked at the unexpected noise, abruptly coming back from the soft daze he had been in.   
He stared down at his hand in confusion for a long moment.  
  
Rather, he stared down at the brush handle that was in his hand. A quick look in the mirror   
confirmed it: Yes, the head of the brush was dangling comically at the side of his head, tangled   
amongst the hair there.  
  
//This cannot be happening!// he thought in disbelief. That brush had served him faithfully for   
millenia! For it to turn on him now was unspeakable!  
  
And yet there it was, in two separate pieces.  
  
Five minutes and several choice curses later, he managed to disentangle the brush from his hair.   
Then he was faced with another problem.  
  
He had no other brush.  
  
A soft growl of annoyance, then he began combing his hair with his fingers. It didn't do nearly   
as good a job as the brush, and when he was done putting his hair up into its customary braids   
and falls it resembled the time he had allowed a young Legolas to braid it for him. Strands of   
silken gold stuck out in every direction, and he was certain that at least one of the braids   
would not last the day.  
  
Ah, well. It was the best he could do, and no one would mention it to his face.  
  
//They had better hope that they don't, at any rate.//  
  
Hair what passed for done that day, Thranduil's thoughts turned again to his clothing. The robe   
he had already chosen, but a robe was merely the outermost part of his daily clothing.  
  
Once again he went over to the wardrobe, careful to avoid the door this time.  
  
//And to go beneath the robe, I will have...// He pulled open one of the drawers at the bottom of   
the wardrobe, stared. //Valar, why me?//  
  
The drawer was empty save for one of his hunting outfits and the old shirt he wore with it.   
Apparently, his servants had been a bit lax in their duties of washing and replacing his clothing.  
  
//Speaking of servants, where *are* they? They should have been here by now. They should have   
been here *hours* ago, and awakened me!//  
  
He closed the drawer with a dull wooden thud and a sigh.  
  
//*What* am I supposed to wear under my robe if I have no other clean clothing?//  
  
Then a thought occurred to him, something he would not even have considered if his day had been   
anything other than it had so far. Something he might have done as a wild young Elfling.  
  
He looked back at the robe, gauging its thickness and fall with a careful eye. Then a   
mischievous grin made its way across his face.  
  
Yes, it would work, he decided.  
  
Five minutes later, the robe-clad Elvenking left his bedchamber and began his trek down to the   
dining hall to break his fast.  
  
//I just hope that my fast is the only thing I will be breaking,// he thought to himself as he   
walked. His jaw was still sore.  
  
But he arrived in the dining hall without incident, sat down at his place at the head of the   
table. When a kitchen-servant appeared with food for him, he took the opportunity to ask a   
question.  
  
"Where were my personal servants this morning?"  
  
The other Elf looked at him, face harried. "They, and more than half the staff, are sick with   
fever and spots."  
  
Thranduil blinked. "That is impossible. Elves do not get sick."  
  
The servant grumbled. "You would not say that if you saw them."  
  
The Elvenking sighed. "And when can I expect clean clothes to be delivered to my chamber?"  
  
The servant turned, hurried back toward the kitchen. He called back over his shoulder. "We are   
working with a third of our staff. You will get clothes when you get them."  
  
Thranduil stared. No one had spoken to him in that tone of voice since he was a little Elfling.   
But still, it was understandable if two-thirds of the staff were inexplicably ill, and all   
remaining servants were forced to do the work of three.  
  
A small shrug, then he turned to the meal he had been given. He stared. Oatmeal?! A sigh, then   
he picked up the spoon and took a bite.  
  
A grimace of disgust crossed his face as he chewed, then swallowed.  
  
Not just oatmeal. *Plain* oatmeal. *Cold* plain oatmeal.  
  
The spoon clattered to the table as he stood, then walked away. Not even the hungry twisting of   
his stomach was enough to make him eat the cold disgusting stuff.  
  
Then the meeting popped back to the forefront of his thoughts. A soft sound of annoyance, then   
he took off at a dash for the council chamber. With any luck, he wouldn't be so late that the   
others would have left already.  
  
His new robes swirled around him as he ran.   
  
He was dashing up a railless stairway when a servant came into the room below, pushing a mop in   
front of her. She looked up at the flash of quick movement.  
  
She saw her King, Thranduil, running up the stairs. She saw his new robes, saw them swirl   
dramatically in the wind of his passing. Then a combination of the stairway's curve and the wind   
from his run parted the robes enough for her to see....  
  
The heat rushed to her face.  
  
//Elbereth,// she thought to herself as the sound of his passing vanished into the maze of   
hallways that was Mirkwood's palace. //Doesn't he know that he is supposed to wear *something*   
under those robes?!//  
  
***  
  
Oblivious to his unwitting flashing of the servant, Thranduil continued on his dash to the   
council chambers.  
  
Upon arriving, he threw open the doors and walked in, already speaking.  
  
"Forgive my tardiness, my... lords?" His voice trailed off into a question as he found himself   
facing a nearly empty room. One eyebrow raised in question, he walked over to the only other   
person in the room; one of his advisors. "Where is everyone?" he asked simply.  
  
"Everyone?" came the question in reply.  
  
"Yes, everyone. For the meeting about the-" //What was it? What? Ah, yes.// "-the nut tax."  
  
His advisor stood, reached out a hand, laid it on Thranduil's forehead. "Are you feeling well,   
my King?" he asked in concern. "You have not caught the fever, have you?"  
  
Thranduil batted away the other's hand. "I am not ill. Now answer my question. Where is   
everyone?"  
  
"Sire, the meeting of which you speak is yet a week away."  
  
TBC...  
  
--  
Ai, poor Thranduil. And his day has just begun! *evil grin* I'll be a little easier on him next   
chapter. A little. This much: - - LOL! Then he'll be a bit more miserable in the next chapter.   
Then even more so in the one after that... ;oD After that... well, we'll see what comes; that's   
as far as the plotbunnies have gotten so far, though I am hearing vague mutterings now and   
again.... :oP  
  
So... review? The plotbunnies and I really, really like reading them! :oD 


	3. Out and About

Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
--  
Paper Crane: I don't know where Legolas is at the moment. He might show up, he might not. I guess   
it depends on whether or not he gets wind of what I'm doing to his Ada; if he does, he might   
decide to stay hidden.... *grin* You just never know.  
--  
  
A/N: FF.net is being a !@#@%$#^$%^ lately. If you see that part of the chapter is missing (it   
should be quite obvious), please let me know at archivist@melethryn.net It already won't let me   
upload the "Saruman's Revenge" continuation-snippet that I wrote; I had to upload *that* at   
eFF.net instead, and I *hate* breaking up my stories like that. *sigh*  
  
Thoughts, as always, are in // //.  
  
For disclaimer, see part 1.  
  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 3  
  
"Next... week?" Thranduil said weakly, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The bath, the   
clothes, the whole morning... all for naught? "There are no meetings this morning?"  
  
"None, Sire," his advisor confirmed.  
  
Thranduil walked in a daze to his seat at the head of the council chamber's long table.   
Gathering his robes carefully about him so they wouldn't fall open, he sat down heavily.  
  
Mere moments later he sat on the cold stone floor, the broken remains of his chair around him,   
robes spread open around him, showing plainly the lack of clothing beneath them.  
  
//Truly, I should have seen that one coming,// he thought to himself.  
  
As if on cue, he heard his advisor's startled "Sire!"  
  
Slowly, face flushed with embarrassment, Thranduil climbed to his feet, pulling the robe close   
about him as he did. He looked to the other, saw the wide-eyed look. He opened his mouth to   
explain, but then closed it with a sigh instead, shaking his head.  
  
//This day...// he thought to himself in exasperation. Everything just seemed to get worse and   
worse. //I need some fresh air.//  
  
That thought brought to mind the remembered sight of his hunting outfit, waiting in his wardrobe   
for just such a time.  
  
//Hunting,// Thranduil mused. //Yes, that will do nicely. Perhaps my luck will improve once I am   
out of the Palace.//  
  
Resolved, Thranduil looked to the other Elf. "I am going hunting," he said simply. "See to it   
that my regular hunting group assembles outside the gates."  
  
Then he left the council chamber on his way to his rooms, ignoring his advisor's half-hearted   
words of protest.  
  
***  
  
Within the hour, Thranduil arrived at the gates, passed beyond them with a short nod to the   
guards stationed there.  
  
One eyebrow raised in question as he saw the group that waited for him.  
  
The number was the same as usual - a clean half-dozen - but many of them were unfamiliar to him,   
and not his usual companions as he had requested. Only two of the six were those he usually   
hunted with.   
  
Of the remaining four, one was a youth barely adult, looking quite nervous in the presence of the   
Elvenking, constantly fidgeting with his bow, repeatedly fingering his arrows until the feathers   
were somewhat ragged. His hunting leathers were obviously new, and would doubtless be chafing him   
mercilessly by the time it came for them to return.  
  
The three other Elves in the group were rather nondescript, wearing comfortably worn leathers,   
staring calmly out at the forest as they waited.  
  
Thranduil looked to his two regular companions. "Where are the others?" he asked simply. "And who   
are these...?"  
  
"They have the fever," one of the two, Mîdhlaer, said. Both were sons of his advisors and had   
ridden out hunting with him since reaching their majority. "These... well, we needed four more to   
fill out our group, and these were available."  
  
The second, Rhîwbrethil, nodded. "I have hunted with the older ones before, and they are fairly   
competent."  
  
The three were distracted from their conversation by the soft thudding of approaching hoofbeats.   
They turned to see a set of stablehands leading a group of seven horses toward them, then   
dividing the mounts up among the seven.  
  
Thranduil looked at the horse that was brought to him, then looked to the Elf that had brought it.   
"Where is Gwaenaur?" he asked; Gwaenaur was his favored hunting mount.  
  
"He was well when we brought him in last night, Sire, but somehow during the night he acquired a   
large scratch on one of his legs and cannot be ridden until it is healed."  
  
Sighing at the fact that apparently his bad luck now extended even to his mount, Thranduil sighed   
an mounted Mîrsador, his secondary.  
  
Around him, his companions were also leaping onto their given mounts, speaking to them in low   
voices of the hunt to come.  
  
Once the groups was mounted, Thranduil signaled them to move out into the forest to begin their   
hunt.  
  
Legs firmly gripping the barrel of the horse between them, keeping him firmly in place despite   
the lack of saddle and bridle that were so common amongst the mortal race, Thranduil urged   
Mîrsador into a faster gait.  
  
As he rode, he breathed deeply of the scent of the woods around him, of the fresh air that ran   
over him from the speed of his passing. The occasional beam of sunlight that managed to penetrate   
the canopy was warm on him skin.  
  
//Perhaps my luck will finally improve,// he thought optimistically.  
  
***  
  
Three hours later, he wasn't so sure about the change in his luck. They had not seen any game at   
all; not so much as one of the black squirrels that were ever-present in Mirkwood. No deer, no   
rabbits, no birds, no *anything* even partially worth eating.  
  
With an annoyed sigh, Thranduil called a halt. They were all tired of searching for nonexistant   
game, and were ready for a rest.  
  
Dismounting and letting their horses roam free to find their own fodder, the Elves sat in a small   
glade, the sun at just the right angle to pour down at them, bathing them in warm sunlight. They   
passed around what provisions they had brought with them, sharing a light meal of meat and dried   
fruit.  
  
For a little over an hour, they lazed around the grassy glade in the sunlight. Then, one by one,   
they went on the alert, their senses telling them that something was not right, that something   
was going to happen....  
  
Standing now, bows drawn, sharp Elven eyes relentlessly scanned the woods around them, searching   
for the cource of their unease.  
  
Suddenly, drawn out by an especially strong gust of wind in the canopy above, a tree creaked   
loudly in the forest outside the glade.  
  
With a small squeak of surprise, and fear, the youngest member of the group pivoted in place and   
loosed his arrow before he even recognised the sound.  
  
Thranduil, standing alone at the edge of the glade in the direction of the creaking, straightened   
abruptly as the youth's arrow slammed forcefully into his rump. At first, there was only the   
shock of impact, then a wash of white-hot pain shot through him, pushing pain in molten rivulets   
through his veins. His shriek of pain and anger echoed through the Wood, startling the feral boar   
that had been sneaking up on them, scaring it into flight.  
  
For a long moment, Thranduil could not move, could do nothing but stiffly stand there, eyes   
staring blankly out at the forest. Then Mîdhlaer and Rhîwbrethil were there. They gently lifted   
the Elvenking, carried him further into the clearing and lay him facefirst onto the grass so that   
they could tend to the embarrassing injury.  
  
Thranduil came back to himself as they were cleaning the wound. His eyes slowly focused on the   
bloodstained arrow that lay in the grass nearby. The ragged fletchings showed that it could only   
have belonged to one person.  
  
//I am never,// he thought to himself, wincing as his wound was firmly packed with healing herbs,   
//*never* taking an untested youth out hunting with me again.//  
  
But there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was lie there in the sun-warmed   
grass and try to ignore the fact that his leggings were pulled down around his thighs, baring his   
rear to the world, as Mîdhlaer expertly wrapped his wound with bandages.  
  
That done, his leggings were pulled back up. They couldn't do anything for the bloodstained hole   
in the seat of them, but at least the arrow was out and the wound carefully attended to.  
  
Slowly, Thranduil sat up, quickly decided that sitting wasn't a very good idea, then stood   
instead. He cast a look around the glade.   
  
Somehow, between the not finding any game and being shot, he had lost the urge to hunt that day.  
  
//Enough is enough,// he said to himself. //Valar only know what *else* could happen to me out   
here. At least in the palace, there are *healers* at call to see to any injuries I might sustain.   
This is just *not* my day.//  
  
His big bed was looking more inviting every time he thought of it. The urge to go home, clean up,   
crawl into bed and not come back out for a *long* time... it was nearly irresistable.  
  
//No, it *is* irresistable,// he thought.  
  
"Mount up!" he barked, the pain wearing his temper down to a thin strand. "We are going back."  
  
It was only when he had mounted that he fully realized just how uncomfortable and painful riding   
on an arrow wound *was*. But he would not stay one minute more than necessary away from his nice   
comfortable bed, and kept silent about the pain, though anyone who looked to him could see how he   
was gritting his teeth against it, his face paler than usual.  
  
Seeing the king's foul mood, the others refrained from protesting their return to the palace.  
  
As if to mock them, during their ride back the forest around them was alive with animals of all   
sorts.  
  
Thranduil only growled.  
  
TBC...  
  
--  
Don't ask how I came up with these names. Really. I just went through my Sindarin dictionary,   
picked English words at random, got the Sindarin for them, then put together those that sounded   
halfway decent.  
  
Mîdhlaer: Summer-dew  
Rhîwbrethil: Winter-birch  
Gwaenaur: Wind-fire  
Mîrsador: Faithful jewel  
  
--  
  
Anyways, like this part? I said it would be a bit slower-paced than last chapter, but I trust   
there was still enough Thranduil-torture to make everyone except my ThranduilMuse happy? *grin*   
Next chapter will see him get a bit more miserable, at about the same pace as this chapter, but   
paet five picks up quite a bit... or at least, that's what the plotbunnies have been telling   
me.... ;)  
  
That aside, reviews are really nice things! The plotbunnies like them, I like them.... We re-read   
them over and over and over and over and.... ;oD 


	4. Through the Wood

Thranduil's Longest Day  
  
By SkyFire  
  
For disclaimer, see part 1.  
  
A/N: Sorry about the looooong delay between chapters; been sick on and off since mid-April (more on than off, too. *sigh*). Hope this was worth it; I know next chapter certainly is! *grin*  
  
Emphasis (italics) is in * *. Thoughts are in // //.  
  
.  
  
*********  
  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 4  
  
Barely an hour's ride into their return, the sunny skies above clouded over, the last of the blue skies disappearing within minutes.  
  
Thranduil looked up as the first few drops of rain pattered softly to the forest floor. He saw, beyond the tangled branches above, that the skies that had been so clear and blue were now nearly black with barely-held-back rain.  
  
As if in response to his glance upward, the skies chose that moment to open up, loosing a deluge of rain that soaked them all within seconds.  
  
With a small sound of disgust, Thranduil pulled his hood over his wet head, wrapped his soggy cloak closer about himself. It did little good; a hard wind had joined the rain, sending cloaks flapping madly, allowing the rain to drench them further as it fell nearly sideways.  
  
It was like riding through curtain after curtain of water, Thranduil decided as they rode. Cold, wet, and miserable, he pulled his cloak tighter as the wind once again caught it up. He blinked the water from his eyelashes, looked over to the others of his party to reassure himself that the others were equally as miserable.  
  
Looked again.  
  
//This cannot be happening,// he grumbled to himself. Raising one soaked hand, he brushed his face free of rain, then looked around him once more, already knowing what he would find.  
  
Trees. Moss. Ferns. Rocks. Rain, everywhere, cutting visibility to nearly nothing.  
  
Wait.  
  
He gave his horse the command to stop, then looked around yet again, doing his best to ignore the dull flashes of pain that came from his wound as he twisted about on his horse, peering all around him.  
  
No Elves. He was alone.  
  
Thranduil sighed. //Wonderful,// he thought to himself. //Everyone else has gotten themselves lost.//  
  
For a few minutes longer, he waited there for the others to show up. They didn't.  
  
At last, he shrugged. They had long-laid plans in place for occasions such as those; if the party became separated, each member would abandon the hunt and make their way back to the palace. Though he knew that this had happened occasionally to other groups, it was a plan that Thranduil had never actually had to use himself.  
  
One last look around, looking for both his companions and the direction of his halls, then Thranduil urged his horse onward in his chosen direction.  
  
***  
  
Thranduil leaned wearily against the rough bark of the tree behind him, glared tiredly up at the rain-dark skies above, occasionally seen through the thick canopy of the forest.  
  
His wet hair hung about his shoulders in ropy strands, dripping. He ignored it as best he could in his miserable state.  
  
His cloak had made an admirable attempt to keep him at least partially dry, but at long last its efforts had been in vain. His soaked hunting leathers clung to him, shafing him with every motion he made. The damp didn't help his disposition any, especially when added to the throbbing from his arrow wound; the cold and damp seemed intent on bringing out the worst in him.  
  
Lowering his gaze from the branches above, he looked to his horse. Though it was easily as soaked as he was, it seemed to be *enjoying* the rain as it grazed on a small patch of grass in a small clearing nearby, formed by the fall of a great tree.  
  
He growled beneath his breath.  
  
Thranduil turned his glare once more to the skies above, from which the torrential rains continued to pour.  
  
At last, he judged that the rains had let up some... or at least that he was tired of waiting and longed to get back to his palace and the nice warm bed that awaited him. Whistling Mîrsador over, he painfully mounted, then they started once more on their journey toward home.  
  
As luck would have it, not five minutes after leaving the clearing, Thranduil came across one of his companions, who was also making his way back.  
  
He had already hailed the other before he consciously realized who it was; the young Elf that had shot him.  
  
//It just *had* to be that one,// he grumbled to himself. Then he stepped firmly on the uncharitable thoughts that came to mind. //Ease off, Thranduil,// he thought to himself, //it *was* simply an accident. It is not as if he is going to do it aga--// He cut the thought off short. //No, Thranduil, don't even *think* it. Do *not* tempt fate.//  
  
In the split seconds the mental conversation had taken, the young one had startled at Thranduil's call, pivoted swiftly in the direction of the call, and--  
  
Thranduil quickly ducked as a ragged-feathered arrow cut through the air in the space where his head had been only moments before.  
  
//That *idiot*!// Thranduil seethed as he straightened, wound throbbing in agreement. //He seems *determined* to perforate me.// Then he grinned. //Perhaps when we get back I should have him locked into a large, empty room in the palace,then shoot a few quiver-fulls at *him*!//  
  
The young hunter, already pale from seeing who it was that he had almost shot //again//, paled even further upon seeing the maniacal grin and crazed look that Thranduil was aiming his way. Eyes wide and dark with fear, he yelped, then urged his horse off into the forest, moving as quickly as they could away from the Elvenking.   
  
//I suddenly have a *driving* urge to visit Mother's distant kin in 'Lórien,// he thought as he went. Lothlórien was as good a destination as any. //But is it far enough away from *him*?//  
  
Thrnaduil blinked, stared as the younger Elf tore off through the wood as if the Nine pursued him. A quick look around showed there to be no Black Riders in sight. He shrugged in dismissal.  
  
Alone once again, he once more urged Mîrsador on in the direction of his palace. Already, he could hear the chuckling and gurgling of last river he would have to ford. After that, it was a straight ride to his palace, over the bridge that crossed the Forest River, then in and to bed.  
  
//Soon,// he told himself as they made their way to the ford. //Soon, I'll be home.//  
  
TBC...  
  
.  
  
So, like it? A bit slower-paced than the others, I think, but next chapter will make up for it! *grin* Anyways, if you liked it, click the button down there and leave a review! The plotbunnies will love you for it! 


	5. The River

Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
For disclaimer, see part 1.  
  
A/N: This is the chapter that started it *all*. ;oP It's the first chapter I wrote for this fic,   
the thing that inspired all the rest.   
  
.  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 5  
  
His horse had barely began to climb out of the river when it happened.  
  
Thranduil shifted his weight slightly as his horse surged beneath him, forehooves landing now on   
dry shore as it moved forward at his muttered command. One hand tangled in its mane, he used his   
free hand to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder in thanks for having carried him across   
the river.  
  
There had been a brief period during which the rain stopped entirely. During that time, his   
elven-made garments had had time to dry a bit, and were now simply damp and clammy, his damp   
leathers chafing uncomfortably as they dried. Even with the chafing, though, it was by far   
better than staying drenched. When the rain started again, though it was pouring, it was not as   
hard as it had been, and his cloak kept most of it off.  
  
Having crossed the river mounted, Thranduil was freshly wet nearly to the hip, the wet and   
persistant pain from the arrow wound combining to make him decidedly uncomfortable. His cloak   
had - so far - managed to keep the rest of him dry against the pouring rain, though a certain   
part of him wondered cynically how long *that* would last.  
  
//Yes, all in all, I am *more* than ready to return to the palace, get warm, dry, and fed, then   
crawl into bed and not leave it for a *long* time. Or at least once I did leave it, I would not   
go anywhere near nervous archers, rivers, rain, tubs, rugs....//  
  
Barely had he finished the thought when his horse, frightened by something in the woods ahead,   
reared, neighing wildly in panic.  
  
Not expecting the movement, Thranduil went flying backwards, landing in the river with a splash   
and spike of white-hot pain from his wound.  
  
The water, perhaps six feet deep at that point, closed over him. Instantly, the stronger current   
a few feet away in the deeper center of the river grabbed hold of his cloak and pulled him along   
deeper by the throat.  
  
Strangling, Thranduil clawed desperately at his throat, searching for the cloak's clasp even as   
he was dragged along underwater, getting battered by rocks and other debris in the river.  
  
//Where is that damned clasp?!//  
  
Being dragged headfirst downriver by the cloak at his throat, it was his upper body that hit the   
obstruction first, the rest of him following quickly, the force of impact knocking the last of   
the air from his lungs.  
  
The current doing its best to keep him pinned in place, it was a struggle to move his hand from   
his throat to the knife at his belt. Sparing a quick word of thanks to the Valar that his knife   
had not been washed away by the rushing waters, he wrapped his fingers firmly about the hilt,   
then drew it. It was another battle to raise it to his throat and saw through the strangling   
cloak without accidentally slitting his own throat as the unpredictable current tugged at his arm.  
  
Spots danced in front of his eyes as he cut through the fine, thick material; spots from both the   
constriction at his throat and the lack of air. Pain shot through him in flashes as he was   
repeatedly battered against the obstruction behind him by the water, his arrow wound starting to   
bleed again from the merciless pounding.  
  
At last, he managed to cut away the cloak, letting it continue on its journey downriver without   
him. Freed of the strangling cloth, the desperate lack of air screamed foremost in his mind.   
With an effort, he managed to re-sheath his knife at his waist.  
  
//Thranduil,// he thought to himself as first he struggled to turn around, then edge his way   
clear of the thing - a tree's root system, he now saw - that he had been pinned against. //You   
might not make it this time.//  
  
Indeed, the surface of the water looked further and further away to his darkening sight.  
  
Then the innate stubbornness for which he was so well known made an appearance. //I am *not*   
going to die here,// he growled to himself. //I will *not*.//  
  
Filled briefly with the strength of his determination, he pushed free of the roots, then clawed   
his way through the water to the surface, his legs trailing uselessly behind him; kicking   
agravated his wound, sent spikes of pain up his spine.  
  
At last, near to blacking out for want of air, his head broke the surface. For a long while, he   
could do nothing but gasp for air, his arms working busily to keep him afloat against the pull of   
the current. Slowly, the blackness vanished from his sight, leaving it nearly as sharp as he was   
used to, though dimmed slightly from bloodloss and pain.  
  
When he was finally able to focus on something besides breathing, he cast a quick look around at   
the shores passing by with dizzying speed to either side. The rain had slowed to a gentle shower   
and was showing signs of stopping entirely, letting him see the shore easily enough to see that   
he was nearing the edge of Mirkwood.  
  
//Have to reach the shore,// he thought to himself.  
  
Gritting his teeth against the pain from his river-given bruises, trailing legs so much dead   
weight, arrow wound hurting too much to let him kick, Thranduil clawed his way through the water   
toward the shore, his efforts a mockery of his usual quicksilver grace in the water.  
  
Barely had he been washed completely out of the forest when he reached the shallower water near   
the shore. Slowly, he managed to crawl from the river, pull himself up the bank and collapse in   
the long grasses that grew there. Cracking open one eye, Thranduil could see the eastern outer   
edge of Mirkwood, the trees rising abruptly in a dark mass perhaps forty feet away, upriver.  
  
He closed his eyes again, rested his cheek on the grass beneath him. A soft breeze blew across   
the plain, making him shiver in his soaked and torn clothing.  
  
Almost as if in an attempt to atone for the so-far horrible day he had been having, the Sun   
peeked out from behind the dissipating clouds, shining her warm rays down upon him, slowly drying   
his tattered clothing as he lay there, limp, barely conscious.  
  
Hours passed. Still he did not move.  
  
The Sun was sinking into the West in a blood-red sky when Thranduil, still barely able to even   
raise his head due to the near-complete exhaustion from his trip down the river, looked up at a   
sound near the treeline.  
  
Through the strands of damp hair straggling down in front of his face, he could see the last of   
the sun's light glinting ominously from the hungry eyes of the creature standing there.  
  
The hairy grey and black monster stared at him for a few moments more, waiting for the Sun to   
vanish completely below the horizon. Then it crept forward, muttering to itself in a high,   
squeaky voice all the while.  
  
Body screaming in protest at any move he made, unable to push himself up to get away, Thranduil   
could do nothing but lay there and watch as the large, bloated form of the Mirkwood spider neared   
him on its clawed feet.  
  
He was helpless as the spider reached out one claw for him, then rolled him this way and that,   
watching him closely as it did.  
  
He was unable to hold back a small yelp of surprise and pain when one hard, chitinous claw   
prodded him ungently in the ribs and stomach, checking him for life and substance.  
  
Apparently satisfied, it released him, letting him fall back to the grass upon which he had lain.  
  
Then it took careful aim.  
  
As the spider's stinger pierced his shoulder, sending its paralyzing poison into him, the   
Elvenking had time for only a single thought.  
  
//Merciful Valar, what did I *do* to deserve this day?!//  
  
Then he thought nothing at all.  
  
TBC...  
  
.  
--  
I have a couple of ideas as to how to keep on from here... let me know what your guesses are, and   
we'll see which I'll end up choosing... *grin*  
  
Reviews make happy plotbunnies, and happy plotbunnies make for more stories/ideas... Feed them by   
clicking the button down there! ;oD 


	6. Spiders!

Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
For disclaimer, see part 1.  
  
A/N: Whoa, an update! O_O Sorry for the delay; things are a bit hectic around here what with the   
uncertain health, and the packing (I'm going to be moving this month, then again!! by the end of   
January. Sheesh!) So, anyways, hope you like this chapter. Thranduil's Troubles continue, and   
the 'Where is Legolas, anyway?' Question is answered.... *grin*  
  
Emphasis is in * *. Thoughts are in // //.  
  
.  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 6  
  
Consciousness slowly inflicted itself on the king of Mirkwood. For a long moment, he had to   
battle against near-overwhelming nausea, fighting it down after long moments of misery. He tried   
to raise a hand to wipe the cold sweat from his brow, but could not move his hand from his side.   
Looking down at himself through eyes that were surprisingly reluctant to focus, he saw the thick   
greyish strands that wrapped snugly about his shoulders and chest, and presumably -- judging by   
the way he could not move his legs -- down to his feet.  
  
Slowly, the memories resolved themselves in his mind, showing to him the reason why he was so   
bound, and feeling so ill and feverish.  
  
//Spiders,// he thought briefly with a small grimace. //One stung me, then... brought me here...   
wherever 'here' is, exactly... to eat later. Valar!//  
  
Looking around, Thranduil found that he was hung in mid-air, suspended from a thick branch by a   
strand of the same sticky spider-thread that cocooned him from the shoulders down. Huge webs   
spanned the spaces between the trees for as far as he could see in any given direction; some old   
and tattered, some battered but mended, some entirely new. From other branches nearby hung deer   
and boar, smaller birds and animals caught in the massive webs. A sick-looking Elf hung not far   
from him, cocooned in webbing much as Thranduil himself was. The pale, greenish face was turned   
mostly to the side, but the faint wind was slowly turning him so that Thranduil could see--  
  
He rolled his eyes. //Of course,// he thought wryly to himself. //It couldn't be anyone *useful*.   
It just *had* to be *him*.//  
  
The young Elf's eyes widened as he saw Thranduil handing there-- bruised, battered, and   
disheveled from his involuntary river-journey, but still easily recognizable as the king that   
he was. The king he had shot once, and barely missed the second time. He let out a faint squeak   
of dismay, paling even more.  
  
Thranduil rolled his eyes once more, then sighed. Dangerous as the youth had proven to be to him,   
they would have to work together somehow if they were to have any chance of not being eaten. The   
myriad bones that littered the ground around them were silent proof to the futility of escape   
without aid.  
  
//First things first,// Thranduil thought. //Calm him. That shouldn't be too hard. I can always   
calm Legolas, and he and this young one seem to be nearly of an age....//  
  
"What is your name?" he asked gently, one golden brow rising sharply at the other's look of shock   
and surprise. "What?"  
  
"It's me," said the youth. "You don't recognize me?"  
  
"If I did, would I ask? Are you one of Legolas' friends, perhaps?"  
  
"Ada, I *am* Legolas!"  
  
"*Legolas*?!" came Thranduil's undignified squeak. He studies the youth closely. If the braids   
were let loose, if he were dressed in one of Legolas' favorite outfits, if he wore Legolas' crown   
of ribbons and leaves-- Valar! "Legolas! But you look--"  
  
"I got my braids today, Ada," Legolas said with shy pride. "My knife-teacher said I was good   
enough."  
  
Pride mingled with pain mingled with more pride mingled with-- "And what did your *archery*-  
teacher say?"  
  
Legolas blushed as much as he could in his pale, sickly state. "That I should stick to blade-  
work. I'm sorry, Ada."  
  
Chuckling involuntarily, Thranduil was about to reply when they heard a scuttling noise from in   
the trees all around them, coming rapidly closer.  
  
The spiders were returning.  
  
Renewing his futile struggles against the sticky strands that held him, Thranduil called softly.   
"Legolas, can you get free?"  
  
Not expecting an affirmative response, he was surprised by his son's response.  
  
"I've almost gotten my knife. Almost... ah! There!"  
  
Before Thranduil's surprised eyes, the shining blade of one of Legolas' blades sliced through one   
of the strands, the Elvish steel making short work of them. Legolas moved as quickly as he could   
to slice through the strands pinning his arms to his sides. Once both arms were free, he drew   
his second knife, and--  
  
The spiders were there.  
  
Instantly, they saw the shredded webbing around the half-freed Elf. Chittering to each other in   
irritation, they swarmed him.  
  
Thranduil could only look on helplessly as Legolas was swarmed. His eyes widened at the sudden   
shrieks of pain-- from the spiders.  
  
"He has two fangs!" one of the spiders shrieked in its high, squeaky voice as it jumped back from   
the beset Elf. Five of its eyes were slashed, dripping ichor and useless. "He slices our eyes!"  
  
For long, heart-wrenching moments, the struggle went on. Four more spiders fled the struggle,   
eyes slashed. Two more limped away on damaged claws. Then came the sound Thranduil had been   
dreading-- a harsh cry of shock and pain not from a spider's throat.  
  
Legolas!  
  
Thranduil watched, struggling helplessly as, one by one, the spiders moved away. Legolas' knives   
fell from lax hands to lie amidst the bones on the forest floor. One spider remained, wrapping   
the unconscious young Elf in sticky spidersilk once more. With every turn of Legolas' limp form,   
Thranduil could see the ugly purple bruising and punctures of four spider-stings on the back of   
Legolas' neck. Fear surged through his veins in icy waves; Legolas was so limp, so pale....  
  
Quickly, the spider finished its re-wrapping job, then left the young Elf hanging from Thranduil's   
branch, perhaps a body-length away from him.  
  
A hard prod in the side startled a yelp out of the king of Mirkwood. He glared at the spider,   
then watched as it went over and gave Legolas the same treatment. It took three or four hard   
prods before Legolas mumbled an incoherent protest.  
  
Thranduil sighed in relief; Legolas was still alive.  
  
But how were they to get free of the spiders before they were eaten? He himself could not move,   
and Legolas had lost both knives and been stung four more times with the spiders' insidious venom.  
  
***  
  
The hours passed slowly. At times, Thranduil dozed, still vaguely ill from his own stinging.   
Legolas never stirred.  
  
Around mid-afternoon, a spider came up and prodded Thranduil again.  
  
"Nice and juicy," it chittered to itself. Then, mandibles wide, it closed in. Apparently, it   
had decided that Thranduil was to be its lunch.  
  
Thranduil fought against the strands that held him, but could do nothing but watch as the horrible   
mouth drew nearer....  
  
TBC....  
  
.  
Eep! So, like it? If so, click the button down there and let me know! The plotbunnies like hearing   
from you (especially when it's a break from packing!!), and so do I!! :o) 


	7. Rescued?

Thranduil's Longest Day  
by SkyFire  
  
A/N:   
1)It's been a while, hmmm? Sorry about that... :o(  
2)Anyone interested in PotC fic, I've got a couple up now, just short things. Genre is humor/angst,   
as usual... Check them out; they're listed in my profile page, under the titles 'Weigh Anchor'   
and 'The Pet'.  
  
For Disclaimers, see part 1.  
  
.  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 7  
  
Thranduil, pulling helplessly against the sticky webbing that bound him, stared at the dripping   
mandibles that came steadily closer.  
  
//Merciful Valar,// he prayed fervently as the monster's fould breath rolled over him in rancid   
waves. //Let Legolas remain unconscious. Do not make him witness my death.//  
  
Thranduil closed his eyes tightly as he felt the first light scrape of mandibles against his   
shoulder--  
  
Before the hungry spider could sink its fangs in, there was an irritated chittering from the   
trees all around, then the spider was knocked away from the Elf king by a swiftly-moving blur   
from one side, a blur that resolved into...   
  
...another spider.  
  
"Mine!" hissed the first spider, slowly righting itself on its hairy legs, clawed feet digging   
into the clearing's bone carpet.  
  
"Not!" cackled another. "Not decided who gets the juicy ones!"  
  
"I caught him!" the first spider hissed in reply. It took a few steps toward where Thranduil   
hung, but was blocked by other spiders.  
  
"Matters not who did the catching," one said, voice high and scratchy. "It is here now."  
  
"But--"  
  
Whatever the spider had intended to say was never known, for just then its words trailed off into   
a scream of pain as an arrow embedded itself in one of the beast's eyes.  
  
The arrows were hissing through the air, burying themselves in spider-flesh as often as glancing   
off the hard, hairy carapaces.  
  
Unable to help in the fight, Thranduil paid it little heed, save to note that the unseen archers   
were indeed routing the spiders; already injured by Legolas' earlier efforts, most had no   
interest in another fight.  
  
Instead, Thranduil turned his attention back to the limp form of his son. "Legolas?" he hissed.   
No response. He risked a low shout. "Legolas!"  
  
A twitch, followed shortly by a sickly-sounding moan. "A-ad-da?" came the faint query.  
  
"Yes, Legolas," Thranduil said. Another quick glance showed the fight to be nearly over, the   
spiders --those that were left-- retreating with hissed taunts and curses.  
  
"A-ada, I do not feel very well."  
  
Thranduil winced in sympathy; after a total of five spider-stings, he was sure that his son was   
feeling more than just a *little* unwell. "I understand. But we will be getting away from here   
soon, and we will get you medicines." //Even if I have to give up some of my treasure to these   
archers, I'll see you freed and well!//  
  
At last, spiders routed, the archers entered the bone-littered clearing.  
  
Mirkwood's king blinked, stared. Surely he and his son hadn't been rescued by--  
  
//The spider-poison,// he thought to himself. //That has to be it. The spider-poison is making   
me hallucinate.//  
  
That solved, Thranduil closed his eyes, focused his will on seeing past the hallucination.  
  
Opened his eyes.  
  
Looked again.  
  
Groaned.  
  
Shook his head, as if to shake the vision free.  
  
Groaned again.  
  
The sight before and beneath him remained the same.  
  
Below them in the clearing, scouts keeping a sharp eyes out for the spiders' return, even as some   
of their number noticed the trapped and dangling Elves and began working out a way to get them   
down without causing them further injury, stood their mysterious archer saviours.  
  
A band of--  
  
TBC...  
  
--  
Ooh! *Evil* rabid plotbunnies! *Evil*!! ...*evil grin*  
  
I know, I know, short chapter. *sigh* I'm sorry, but this is all I have right now, and I didn't   
want to wait another couple of months before updating...  
  
Any guesses who... or what... these 'mysterious' archers are? *grin*  
  
Anyways, if you liked it, please click the button down there and let the plotbunnies and I know! :o) 


	8. Trials

Thranduil's Longest Day  
by SkyFire  
  
A/N: Well, as to the matter of our mysterious rescuers, some of you guessed right, some of you   
guessed not-so-right. ;oP So who was right? Read and see! ;oD  
  
For Disclaimers, see part 1.  
  
.  
*****  
Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire  
  
Part 8  
  
"Ad-da?" came Legolas' weak voice.  
  
Thranduil looked over at his sickly-looking offspring. "Yes?" he said.  
  
"Ad-da, is there really a group of dwarven archers down there?"  
  
A sigh. "It would seem so," he replied. He looked over as one of the dwarves climbed up the tree   
and over to the branch from which they dangled. In the stubby hand was a fine blade of Elven   
design. Legolas' knife, apparently picked up from the ground where it had fallen. He watched as   
the dwarf eased closer, then reached out, setting the knife to the spider-string from which   
Legolas hung. "What are you doing?!" Thranduil yelped as the dwarf started to slice through the   
thick cord.  
  
The dwarf looked at him indulgently, as one would a not-quite-bright child. "I'm cutting the cord."  
  
"But he'll fall!" Thranduil protested. "He is hurt and sick. You cannot drop him! You will only   
do him more harm!"  
  
The dwarf snorted. "He's an Elf. He'll land on his feet. He'll be fine."  
  
"Listen to me, you ignorant--"  
  
Ignoring Thranduil's protests and curses, the dwarf continued to saw through the cord.  
  
Legolas, wide-eyed, struggled weakly in his coccoon of spidersilk, trying uselessly to get away.   
"No!" he called up to the dwarf above him, voice cracking slightly in his fear. "Please!"  
  
Thranduil quailed at the fear in his son's weak voice, focused the full fury of his glare on the   
dwarf, speaking quickly now that the cord was reduced to mere threads. "Please! Lower him gently   
and I will reward you richly! I will--"  
  
"Adaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!" came Legolas' panicky cry as he plummeted, to land   
on the ground of the bone-littered clearing with a sharp cry of pain.  
  
"You miserable--!" Thranduil growled, struggling against the sticky spidersilk around him,   
knowing it was useless, and yet unable to stop himself.   
  
The dwarf only shrugged with a snort. "Guess he didn't land on his feet, after all," was all he   
said as he moved on toward Thranduil's line, began slicing through it.  
  
Sooner than he thought possible, Thranduil found himself plummeting through the air to crash   
awkwardly to the bony ground, older wounds throbbing, his rear sending a new pain though him as   
he landed on it. Dazed from the fall and fresh rush of pain, he barely noticed the webbing being   
cut away. Indeed, he barely noticed a sick and shaking Legolas come up close beside him and hug   
him, seeking what comfort he could.  
  
Finally, his thought cleared enough that he was once more aware of his surroundings. He hugged   
Legolas gently to him, glared at the dwarves around them.  
  
One of the dwarves ignored the glare, came up to stand in front of them, unafraid of the two   
Elves kneeling there in all their ragged, bedraggled splendor. "Well?" he demanded.  
  
Thranduil blinked at the tone. "Well what?" he asked.  
  
"You said you would reward us. Where is it?"  
  
"I said I would reward you if you lowered him gently, and you let him fall. You dropped us both.   
You'll get no reward from me. Consider yourselves lucky that I don't have you executed!"  
  
The dwarves around them chuckled at the threat. "Executed?" said the spokesman. He smirked. "Who   
do you think you are, the King?" A moment for the fresh laughter to die down, then: "So you will   
give us nothing for saving you from the spiders?"  
  
"Not one thing."  
  
Now it was the dwarves' turn to glare.  
  
'I don't like the way they're glaring, Ada,' Legolas said softly, the sindarin words flowing   
musically from his lips. 'Can you run?'  
  
'I can,' Thranduil confirmed. He might be hurt, but was confident that the limping run he would   
manage would be more than enough to leave the dwarves behind. 'And you?'  
  
'I can manage.'  
  
'Good.' Thranduil surveyed the circle of irate dwarves around them, saw them spaced further apart   
in - luckily, for once - the direction he felt they needed to go to get back to his Hall. He   
nudged Legolas slightly, motioned furtively in that direction. At Legolas' small nod, he slowly   
got himself into position to spring up and run, aware of Legolas doing the same beside him.  
  
"If you wil give us nothing, there is no reason to let you go, is there?" the leader of the   
dwarves said. "Elves put a higher price on Elven lives than on those of any other race. Surely   
*someone* will be willing to have you returned alive. The Mirkwood king, perhaps...?"  
  
Thranduil could not hold back the smirk those words called up. "The Mirkwood king will give you   
nothing," he said, smirk widening at the dwarves' deepening glares.  
  
Then he and Legolas were up and running away, breaking through the circle at the weak point they   
had marked before, then limp-running awkwardly out into the wood.  
  
Focused entirely on keeping ahead of their surprisingly swift pursuers, king and prince did not   
see the armed party before they --literally-- ran into them.  
  
And now they were weaponless.  
  
*****  
TBC...  
  
Ah, yes. *Another* nameless armed group. Mirkwood seems full of them at the moment, does it not?   
*grin* I think that this story is winding down, though. Perhaps two or three more chapters left   
to it.  
  
If you liked it so far, please don't hesitate to click the button down there and leave the   
plotbunnies some nice juicy reviews! They just love sinking their pointy teeth into them! :oP 


	9. Finale

Thranduil's Longest Day  
by SkyFire 

A/N1: watches in chagrin as people keel over from the shock of seeing an update A/N2: This is it, folks. The End. The Final Frontier. The End of the Road. Thranduil's feeling pretty good about that, really ("About time!" he says.). Anyways, enjoy the story, and let me know what you think of it! 

Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far! It's really appreciated! 

For Disclaimers, see part 1. 

.

Thranduil's Longest Day  
By SkyFire 

Part 9

Both King and Prince instinctively fought against the hands that reached out for them, until one of the hands' owners had the sense to call out: "Sire!" 

At the sound of the voice --an Elvish voice, and familiar at that-- both Thranduil and Legolas paused in their efforts to get away, at last taking the time to look at this new band of people. Recognized them; members of the Royal Guard, all. 

Both royal Elves sagged in relief, feeling the delayed reaction set in as all that they had endured that day closed in on them at the ebb of fear-born adrenaline. Wounds started to ache out of proportion to their size, spider-poison acted on them as well, making them both sluggish and nauseous. They were, they had to admit, rather worse for wear after that day's events. 

There was a loud crashing noise through the nearby wood, coming steadily nearer. 

The Elven guard placed themselves in a protective ring around the ill and injured royals, faced the threatening noise with weapons drawn and ready. 

The sounds of crashing came ever closer, accompanied now by the sounds of snapping twigs and unstealthy footsteps, gutteral-voiced curses. Then a nearby bank of underbrush disintegrated beneath the rush of the noisemakers. 

The dwarven archers. 

They came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the armed band of Elves, though by no means did this mean that they became silent. Indeed, the lot of them stood in a group, stomping and shuffling about, grumbling, panting... 

Thranduil thought it could be nothing but a miracle that they had managed to make it that far into Mirkwood and not be caught by one of the nests of giant spiders. Though perhaps they were as unpalatable to the spiders as they were an annoyance to the Elves. 

He could still hear Legolas' frightened voice calling for his Ada as he fell helplessly from the branch, still wrapped firmly in spidersilk. 

He glared, though he doubted it looked very fearsome --ill, hurt, and bedraggled as he was-- and held Legolas tighter against him. The young Elf was green-faced, barely conscious, held firmly in the grip of spider-venom. 

"There they are," one of the dwarves in question said to his companions, pointing to where Thranduil and Legolas sat on the ground in the midst of the Elven guards. Then he turned to the two Elves in question. "Hey! You! We want our reward! You owe us! Give!" 

"Reward?" one of the Elves in the ring asked Thranduil in an undertone. 

The dwarf showed himself in posession of good hearing. "Yes, reward! He --the big one-- promised us a reward if we got him and the other one down from the branch where the spiders had put 'em. Then he ran off, said he wouldn't pay up. And we want our reward!" 

The Elves knew there had to be more to the story than that; all knew how generous the monarch could be when the welfare of his son was involved. 

Thranduil filled in the blanks in the dwarves' story. "They dropped us. I went so far as to beg them not to drop him --to let him down gently-- but they did just the same. They dropped us." 

"Who'da thought they wouldn't land on their feet? Thought Elves was like cats!" another of the dwarves said in defense. 

"Was kind of funny, though, wasn't it?" another said softly with a sinister chuckle. "The smaller one yelling 'Adaaaaa' all the way down. What did he think it was, a magic trick? Him yelling 'AbracAdaaaaaabra' and poof! he's on the ground?" 

The dwarves shared chuckles, oblivious to how their telling had more than upset the Elves. When they turned back to them, they were shocked to see them all livid and glowing with barely-suppressed anger. 

"What?" one of the dwarves demanded. "It was funny, and it's not like they got hurt!" 

"You dropped them from the branch?" one of the Elves managed to grind out. "Onto the spiders' boneyard?" 

Finally seeing that the Elves weren't inclined to see the humor in the situation, the dwarves straightened. Unfortunately, straightening didn't give them more sense, nor tact. "Yeah, so?" 

"One of the bones they landed on could have gone right through the spider-wrappings and into them! It could have injured --or even killed-- them!" 

"But none did, and they're fine," argued the dwarven spokesman. "And who are they anyways, that you care what happened beyond that? Look at them! They're filthy, their clothes ragged. Why should you care what happens to some nameless rifraff, beyond to acknowledge that they're well?" 

If anything, the Elves' angry glow brightened further, and they closed ranks against the dwarves, hiding their two charges from casual view. "Their names are Thranduil and Legolas." 

"So?" 

A sigh at the ignorance of dwarves. "The King and Prince of Mirkwood." 

"Oh." Then the dwarf shook his shaggy head. "Those ragged urchins rule Mirkwood? Ha! Not likely. It'll take more than you saying so to convince me of that!" 

Coming steadily nearer from the direction of the palace, Thranduil could hear the barely-perceptible sound of a troop of Elven reinforcements. And so, knowing the additional troops could support them in the endeavor, he gave the order he had wanted to give since seeing the fear in Legolas' face, hearing it as he plummeted from the branch. 

"Arrest them," he said, voice ringing with quiet authority. 

-- 

King and Prince were carried back to the palace on a pair of litters made by the Elven guards, and were soon tended to by Healers, washed, fed, and tucked warmly into their beds to rest and finish healing. 

The dwarven troop was disarmed after a small struggle (which the arrival of Elven reinforcements swiftly quelled), and escorted to the palace, to be placed in the dungeons. 

-- 

Thranduil awoke slowly, languidly. He stretched in the large bed, bare skin sliding easily over the slick silken sheets even as he blinked sleepily up at the canopy above, a canopy made of layered sheer green silk cut to mimic leaves and ferns, the posts elaborately carved with the flowing vines and curves of which the Elves were so fond. 

For a long moment he lay there, drowsing in the warmth and softness, not yet willing to admit that he was awake, that the day had begun. 

At last, though, it was time to rise. If nothing else, he had to both visit Legolas and see to the sentencing of the dwarves he had had imprisoned the day before. 

The full bath, sitting in its usual spot in front of the fireplace, caught his eye and he made his way toward it, pulling his nightshirt smoothly over his head as he went. 

Or at least, that was his intention. 

In actuality, the nightshirt got caught halfway on its way over his jaw. 

Thranduil let out a small sound of disbelief, a sound easily swallowed by the enveloping fabric. This can't be happening,he thought to himself, stumbling a little as he tugged at his nightshirt, only managing to trap his arms in the fabric over his head. Not again!

With a bit of struggling, he managed to pull the nightshirt back down over himself. I am not repeating yesterday!he thought to himself as he walked back toward the bed, carefully stepping around the rug that had betrayed him the day before. Climbing back onto the bed, he pulled the covers back up over himself and slipped off into warm softness, eyes going blank as he drifted. 

END 

--  
Betcha didn't think I would finish it, did you? ;oP 

Poor Thranduil. He's had one lousy day. But at least he knew better than to try his luck at it a second time! 

Anyways, thank for sticking with the story this far. Hope you liked it! If you did, please do click the button down there and let the plotbunnies and I know! We absolutely love reviews (they're one of the best snacks ever!). 


End file.
